Chapter Thirteen
When Denis put his cloak around The Mole’s shoulders, the man shivered like someone coming out of a trance.
“You can’t live without an ideal,” The Mole said.
Denis sat beside him, looked at the quivering limbs.
“Not everybody needs an ideal,” he said. “They can be misused.”
He felt an unexpected connection. In another life, he could have been sitting with The Mole in a bar on a Sunday morning.
“I need an ideal.”
“To have an ideal, you have to know who you are and what you want.”
“I shan’t deny that.”
“And you don’t know?”
There came no answer.
“I’ve read your story,” Denis said.
“These are the men who are hung up like rats. These are the men who are tossed into the shredder.” The Mole’s sing-song reminded Denis of the time he was an altar boy in his home-church
